


two turns round

by slyther_ing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Clubbing, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Infidelity, M/M, yeah i know half of these things don't go together but i promise it makes sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-27 21:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13257186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slyther_ing/pseuds/slyther_ing
Summary: Oliver's not one to let an opportunity go to waste.(In which Marcus has flimsy morals, and Oliver toes the line).





	two turns round

The club he finds himself at is smack dab in Muggle London, far enough away from the world that knows him easily by both face and name. Doesn’t help, really, that Montrose rents out stadium-height billboards for all their player rosters.

It’s not an issue most of the time, but it makes life difficult when he’s trying to run from people who recognize him.

The bartender slides another beer down to him, and Marcus nurses it slowly, feeling the buzz creep down slowly from his temples. He’s surrounded by gyrating bodies, couples here for a good time, and while there’s been a couple blokes who’d come up to introduce themselves, Marcus had turned them all away without a second glance. None of them had really deserved a second glance, as it is.

Marcus isn’t quite sure why he’s here, for one. It’s clearly a ground for people searching for hookups and lovers on the dance floor, and the whole atmosphere is foreign to him. But he needed to get out of the stuffiness of the flat, needed to get away from the quiet scratching of quill against parchment and frustrated huffs from his boyfriend.

The pounding music fills so much of his senses he almost doesn’t realize someone’s calling his name - it’s only until something moves in his peripheral that Marcus turns his head.

And there, in a tight white t-shirt and chestnut hair still falling into his face like Marcus remembers from school, is Oliver Wood.

“Took you long enough,” his rival grins, and Marcus’ stomach gets the swooping feeling he’s tried so hard to suppress for years. Every single match against Puddlemere is an exercise in self-restraint. And while they’ve outgrown the needling and the immature taunts of their teenage years, there’s still been the streak of polite antagonism between them. For competition’s sake, of course.

When Marcus doesn’t speak, Wood ploughs forward. “How come I’m finding you in a bar like this?”

The insinuation is understood between them.

Marcus shrugs, slightly on edge. “Needed a change of scenery from the Leaky.”

“Quite a change in scenery, I’d say.” Wood raises an eyebrow, and with an easy gesture to the bartender, he’s got a drink in hand as well. “Looking for something, Flint?”

Marcus bristles, turning his attention to the condensation beading on his beer. “Got a boyfriend, Wood.”

Something flashes across Wood’s brow, but it’s too fast for Marcus to catch it. “‘Course - how could I forget.”

He raises his drink in a gesture of apology and Marcus, for some reason feeling a little less prickly today, decides to accept it. The music drowns out the no doubt quiet clink of their glasses together.

“What are you doing here, then?” Marcus can’t help his curiosity.

Wood takes a long sip from his drink and the way his eyes scan ever so quickly up and down Marcus’ body and then around to the scattering of attractive men in the club makes a dull heat rise to Marcus’ face. It’s unabashedly sensual and paired with Wood’s good-boy charm, a killer combination. One that drives Marcus completely up the wall when in too close vicinity.

He feels _quite_ guilty, too. But recognizing attraction is natural, Marcus reasons with himself. His partner says the same thing.

“I get bored,” Wood says finally in response, “Restless. And well - there’s one of a few ways to cure my restlessness.”

“Quidditch then?” Marcus coughs.

Wood shrugs, leaning with his back to the bar, side profile cast in blue shadow by the lights on the dance floor. “How’s the season going for Montrose?”

Marcus picks up on the side-step in conversation because - well, they’re not nearly anywhere close enough to discuss each other’s romantic lives. And while he’d usually send Wood off with a glib comment within the first few minutes, Wood’s acting particularly unlike himself today. So when Wood takes a seat by his side, Marcus doesn’t protest. They get another three drinks in each before the debate of team positions and plays (and coach complaints) run to a stop.

The alcohol in his system may be why he lets his eyes linger a little longer on the shifting of muscles as Wood adjusts his stance. Long legs and strong arms and the steady, capable hands of a championship Keeper. Marcus swallows.

No harm, no foul.

He guesses he’s not particularly subtle because when he looks up, Wood’s staring back at him, and if he were any less of a Gryffindor, Marcus would deem that a smirk on his lips.

“Like what you see, Flint?”

“You get somewhere with cliche lines with the other guys?” Marcus shoots back, but instead of cutting Wood down a couple of pegs all it does is make him smile wider.

Marcus makes to get up from the bar stool, but the sudden movement makes him realize he’s a little more intoxicated than he’d originally thought. Not too bad - after all, it was just beer - but enough that when Wood places a steadying hand on his waist, he doesn’t immediately uppercut him.

“Don’t,” Oliver Wood says, and it’s so quiet in the midst of the pounding bass and the changing lights that it cuts Marcus to the quick, “Don’t tell me that you haven’t been wanting this.”

“I haven’t,” Marcus lies quickly, throat dry from the alcohol and the proximity of Wood’s face to his own.

“Really? So all the lingering stares and the embarrassed avoidance of me in the lockers - all that doesn’t mean what I think it does?” Wood chuckles. “I know when a bloke’s checking me out, Flint. And that just now? Definitely admiring the view.”

Marcus curses quietly. “Look, fine. Fine. But I still can’t do this.”

“You asked me why I came here, and here’s the answer.” Wood sidles up closer, and Marcus is glued to the spot, unable to move away from Wood’s sheer magnetism. “So why not?”

“My boyfriend-”

“Doesn’t have to know,” Wood says and then they’re so close the tips of their noses are almost touching.

“He’ll find out.” Marcus whispers but he can feel himself caving into temptation, that utter forbidden fruit that is the tanned expanse of Oliver Wood’s skin. He’s never been good at saying no to things he wants - not Nimbus 2001’s, not easy way outs, and definitely, definitely not Oliver Wood.

The uptilt of Wood’s mouth is familiar. “I assure you, he won’t.”

That’s the last line broken, and before Marcus can fully realize what he’s doing, their mouths are crushed against one another, hot and forward and forceful. Wood makes a low noise against his lips, which makes Marcus pull him further in to his body and this is wrong, it’s _wrong_ , he’s throwing away so damn much, but then Wood shifts his hips and all thoughts fly out the window.

They part reluctantly once they remember where they are - Wood drags Marcus through the throng of people, out the back doors, and presses him up against the cool brick of the wall of the club. This time, it’s Marcus who groans as Wood drags his mouth over the sensitive skin of his neck.

“Mine or yours?” Wood asks breathlessly, body still flush against his.

It takes a minute for Marcus to register exactly what Wood is asking. “Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t - _fuck_ , Wood, just pick.”

That same familiar smile is back and Marcus has barely a moment to brace himself before he’s getting whisked into the familiar nauseous sensation of side-along apparation.

When they’re once again set on their feet, Marcus recognizes the leather upholstery of his couch, and then he’s getting tackled onto said piece of furniture. He doesn’t even have the mind to think how fucking risky it is, but no - the lights are off, the flat is empty, and two pairs of shoes are missing from the entry way and -

“Looks like no one’s home,” Wood says coyly, and Marcus drags him down for another heated kiss, hands dragging up the hem of that attractive white tee. It’s getting in the way and Marcus wants it gone.

“You like taking risks, don’t you, bastard?”

Wood moans low as Marcus’ hand brushes against his cock, but still shoots him a grin. “You like it, too.”

It doesn’t take much for their clothing to be shed, a couple wandless charms here and there aiding in the process, and soon Wood’s grinding his hips down against Marcus’, just the thin layer of briefs in the way and Marcus is so lost to everything, lost in the way Wood’s hands are clutching at his shoulders that he almost forgets where and who he’s supposed to be.

“Fuck, Oliver,” Marcus slips up and Wood’s eyes turn sharp at the name, before he bends down and catches Marcus’ mouth in another searing, mind-numbing kiss. “This is so wrong.”

“And yet, Flint,” Wood casts another wandless charm, well practiced in those of the sexual kind, it seems, “You still want it.”

He’s rid of his briefs, as is Wood, and then it’s skin against skin, the grinding of their hips against one another too fast and too lewd for Marcus to really think about in detail. The leather’s making noise under them and Marcus tips his head back to watch the soft fall of Wood’s mouth, open in pleasure.

Anyone could walk in the door, Marcus knows - it’s not even eleven, they don’t have wards up, and they’re in full display from the entrance. But then Wood’s whispering the charm to prep himself and Marcus can’t bother to care anymore.

Everything’s fast - the way he opens Oliver up, the way Oliver’s straddling him and sinking down without further preamble, the way Oliver’s nails are digging into his chest and oh, it’s not smart to leave tangible marks but Marcus is too caught up in the slick heat on his cock.

“Fuck,” Oliver pants, forehead pressed to his as Marcus lifts his hips up and drives his hips in deeper, “Fuck, so good.”

“Yeah?”

“Would’ve done this earlier - oh, _fuck_ \- if I’d known,” Oliver whimpers as Marcus thrusts particularly harshly, “Would’ve told you.”

Oliver arches back, eyes closed and gasping his pleasure and Marcus traces his hands up and down the toned torso in front of him, greedy and incapable of getting enough. He’s never going to get enough. Every single sound he manages to pull from Oliver’s lips is embedded in his memory and he couldn’t care less about anything else.

He grasps Oliver’s cock in his fist, strokes quickly in rhythm with the way Oliver’s fucking himself down. It doesn’t take much longer for Oliver to come after that, just another twist on the upstroke and then Oliver’s calling his name and spilling white all over Marcus’ fist, cheeks pink and mouth agape.

He’s still in Oliver, and after a couple of shaky breaths, Oliver raises his hips back up, rides him quickly too, until all Marcus can do is grip the armrest of the couch and let the pleasure overcome him.

“Come for me,” Oliver murmurs as Marcus looks at him, wild-eyed. His voice catches on a moan, no doubt getting over-sensitive from his orgasm, but he doesn’t let up on the rolling of his hips. “Come for me, show me you’re mine, no one else's.”

“Oliver.” Marcus manages, a plea and a prayer.

Oliver’s eyes are trained on him, drinking him in with both pride and possessiveness. “You’re mine.”

And then Marcus is coming apart, slipping out of Oliver and coming all over his own torso and gasping out Oliver’s name amidst a stream of curses. He’s definitely gripping Oliver’s hips hard enough to leave bruises but his lover doesn’t seem to care much. The soft murmurs of encouragement Oliver’s speaking into his skin wash over him as the adrenaline and the pleasure fades slowly to a comfortable satiation.

A quick cleaning charm and then Oliver’s slumping forward onto his sweaty chest, messed up head of hair tickling the bottom of Marcus’ chin. He listens to thirty ticks of the clock in the kitchen before shifting his weight, grabbing his wand from the table next to the couch and sending their shoes back to their appropriate place by the front door.

“Ollie.”

A quiet hum in response.

“We’re going to have to clean the couch again.”

Oliver laughs, stretching his limbs like a lazy cat. “We can do that tomorrow. Unless you don’t want your _boyfriend_ to find out.”

He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and Marcus snorts.

“I think he already does,” Marcus jokes, pressing a kiss to the top of Oliver’s sweaty head. “Who knew you wanted me to cheat on you so bad?”

“It was fun, wasn’t it?” Oliver preens, reaching a hand up to cup Marcus’ face. “You’re quite an actor, if I do say so myself.”

Marcus presses another kiss to the palm of Oliver’s hand. “Tried to give you what you wanted.”

“You’re always what I want.” Oliver says affectionately.

Marcus wrinkles his nose. “Disgusting.”

Oliver laughs, pressing his face into Marcus’ neck, and wrapping strong arms around his torso. Marcus can feel the slight sting of sweat in the scratch and nail marks his boyfriend’s left. It’s nice. He’s going to get some knowing looks in the lockers if he forgets to put glamors up, that’s for sure. But it’s still very nice.

“Shower?” Marcus prods, trying to rouse a dozing Oliver to action.

“And then bed.” Oliver agrees, and then he’s getting up with the grace that Marcus can never draw his eyes away from, even after years. It takes another hour before they stumble out from the bathroom, Marcus getting a little too caught up in lazily bringing Oliver off again, but they eventually find their way to bed, flumping into soft sheets and pillows.

“Mine.” Oliver rumbles happily, curled around Marcus’ back as the big spoon.

Marcus turns his head enough to press his nose into Oliver’s cheek, breathing in the smell of shampoo, fresh linen, and mint toothpaste, enjoying the weight against his back. “Obviously, dumbass.”

Oliver’s quiet chuckle is their cue for a good night’s sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> lol so i hate cheating in it's actuality but this idea's been floating around in my head for ages - an interesting way for oliver to stake his claim yet again because we all know gryffindors are a possessive bunch LMAO. 
> 
> this was definitely all talked out ahead of time, because marcus is Proper™ about roleplay.
> 
> thanks for reading!


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